True, or Not True
by Like a boss 888
Summary: "This boy, who had sacrificed for me, whose kindness stretched further than any other person, who, in the face of trouble, would give his life for me, was pressed against my body, inside of me, closer to my heart than anyone had been before." lemon


**The Hunger Games refuses to leave my mind. I started and finished the last book last night, deciding to tackle it in one night so I could ease the pain of it being over. Like ripping off a bandaid haha But I started this immediately after reading the last paragraph of the book. Peeta is such a beautiful character, and I see Katniss in myself in some ways. Its amazing how people can relate to characters that live in such a different world. I tried to keep them in character as much as possible (but maybe I made them a little more dramamamamallama), and found that it was much easier doing that with books as source material. Anime and Videogames, I've learned, can't really paint the vibrant picture that literature can. Thanks for reading! Maybe I'll add some more chapters if people are interested, but for right now its a oneshot I guess.**

**I wrote this in a day, so chances are ill go back in a little bit and actual proofread. Sorry for all the spelling errors and inconsistencies in advance haha**

Real, or Not Real

I didn't notice at first.

A brief graze here, a sturdy arm there. Before either of us knew it, Peeta had taken up a solid residence in my house, or at least during the night, his arms around me the second the sun set. At first I refused. I couldn't bear to be reminded of anything. I didn't want to be so weak, but I needed him to keep the nightmares away, and he needed me, as hard as it was to believe.

Peeta's family was dead. Everyone; his town, his acquaintances, loved ones gone, reduced to nothing but unrecognizable ash. He had no time to mourn. He was beaten, starved, emotionally and physically mutilated. He returned to the only thing he could claim as normal, only to learn the horrible truth of what torture had been done to his mind. I had been so selfish. I blanched at this mutated Peeta, disgusted at his blatant insults, refuting his lies. I abandoned him. I refused to trust him, or try to help him. I thought of myself, and of Gale. I told myself to forget about Peeta, to cleanse myself of things that cannot be fixed.

And what had I lost? My home, my loved ones . . . Prim . . . My sister, whom I had killed, and manipulated and survived for could not have meant more to me than Peeta's own siblings and parents had meant to him. And yet people excused me for the way I acted and tried to help me in any way possible, while Peeta was treated as nothing more than a criminal. And even now, when it hurts to look into his gentle blue eyes, when I visibly wince at the heartbreak inside of me, he still stands by my side.

For so long his touch only brought the guilt to my throat, rising like bile. It started almost immediately after he arrived at the Victor's Village, after the fall of the Capitol. Of course I had noticed him; how could I not? After arriving back at District 12 he had refused to leave my side. This should have comforted me after weeks of seclusion, but the thought of what I had done to Peeta . . . to everyone . . . the hurt I caused was too much to bear. Every time he helped me when I fell, or fed me was a painful reminder that I should be helping him.

I hate who I am, and the picture that I paint of myself. I am the lonely heroine, the shell of what I never was. I am broken, and it is taking Peeta all he has to put me back together. Like a puzzle with pieces missing I wait for Peeta to fix me. He finds some of the parts, but has taken to cutting his own pieces and painting new memories on them to fill the gaping holes. I don't stop him from forcing me to move on. I need to start fresh, just like everyone else.

I barely notice as Peeta crawls into my bed, pressing his chest gently against my back, the steady rise and fall reminding me to breathe. I had been waiting for him, just as I had every night before allowing myself to fall asleep. It has started sporadically after I had gotten used to him living next door again. We never spoke about it, it just happened one night when I remember a particularly painful nightmare. My guess is that hearing my screams at night became so unbearably jarring for him that he had to do what he knew was going to shut me up. I awoke the next morning with his heavy hand on my waist, his body curved in an S against my own. We didn't say a word. I remember turning to him, surprised by his presence and my own failure acknowledge him in my sleep. He only looked at me for a long moment, a sad smile tainting his mouth before eventually bringing his lips to mine and sealing the night with a kiss.

Every time he left in the morning it was the same; gaze, sad smile, kiss. He never made any other gesture, which led me to wonder if this tame Peeta was the true Peeta, and of the one I had met in the games was truly just an act. I was plagued by self doubt, unable to hold onto even a shred of self confidence. Of course it was an act.

His heart was beating in my ear, the pulse resonating into my own heart, my lifeline. His hand was on my hip like it always was. Innocent. Secure. Peeta. So why was I always feeling this fire through my limbs? His groin in my thigh, which was a part of him that I chose to ignore in the past, made the heat pool in my belly. My eyes were open, searching the inky room for a distraction. I could feel his eyes resting on me ever few seconds, but he was doing the same thing I was trying to do. Ignore it. Ignore the feelings that were dormant for so long. Ignore the fever that was felt on the beach at the Second Games. Ignore how much you want to reach out and touch, explore, move forward, grow together.

Ignore the flower that blooms in the ashes of my heart, the dandelion that refuses to die no matter how much I neglect it.

He swallowed, a quiet sound that would have gone unheard if not for the deafening silence of the night. We both had gotten used to ignore the electricity in the room. We'd fall asleep soon, and eventually wake to live in the mundane cycle we call life. Rinse. Repeat. But something changed, and I wasn't thinking, I just reached back and placed my hand on his. It was all I could do to contain myself. He shifted his big hand so that it was over mine, his callaused fingers intertwining mine with his. He reached both of our hands up to my shoulder, where his head rested. I couldn't help but cock my own head towards him, trying to wipe the sad expression from my eyes as Peeta's lips touched my scarred knuckles. He looked up at me through thick lashes, mouth still pressed tight to my hand, his eyes impossibly clear. He didn't move. And neither did I.

Rejection still clawed at the back of my throat. I had always had the luxury of being the reactor, not the initiator. What would happen if Peeta didn't want this . . . with me? I wanted him to gather me in his arms, to kiss me without caring about the consequences. By he was looking at me with an air of half-hopeful expectancy. Again, I felt my mind lapse as I inched towards his face. He slowly lowered our hands. I paused, quickly jolting back to my senses, aware of cameras that aren't there. My slight trepidation seemed too long for Peeta though, because before I could even blink his head was tilted, his lips already ajar as the met mine.

I melted towards him, sliding to face him easily. Whatever reservations I had were quickly forgotton. I had missed this part of Peeta. The part that could make me forget everything. That could burn everything away and make me numb to the world. Made me feel safe, and needed. Whole.

For the first time we weren't putting on a show. There were no camera's, as much as my mind wanted to pretend there were. It was just Peeta and I, alone in this room. Peeta was moving so slow, and his lips were so gentle. He would stop and nuzzle my neck, biting my lobe quickly, but never too far from my lips. I didn't know what to do at first, other than receive. I felt inadequate and inexperienced, and that caused embarrassed recoil to bubble in my stomach. I managed to push it down, but not before getting red in the cheeks. I'm guessing Peeta felt my hot face because he pulled away and I watched as his lids opened carefully.

He looked away. Not ashamed or embarrassed, but aware. I gathered the thin fabric of his shirt into my fist absently, running my thumb against him. My heart was beating so fast. He could hear it. I know he could. Why isn't he saying anything? Is he mocking me with his silence? Why won't he say something? Anything!

Peeta Mellark, whose hands were always meant to give life and beauty to the world, touched my balled up fist, which had done nothing but destroy life, and smiled to himself. "Katniss . . . you never give yourself enough credit." Any voice but his would have been jarring in the silence.

I looked up at him. What did he mean by that?

As if hearing my thoughts, he continued in a whisper, dropping his head slightly, "You can't begin to understand how nervous I am."

I was caught of guard by this confession, but even more so from the bashful nod of his head. Peeta didn't do bashful. He was so self-assured all the time that I wasn't sure how to react. It relieved me though, and gave me the confidence to kiss him, feiry and passionate, pushing hard on his mouth with my lips. It took him a long moment to respond, another uncharacteristic reaction (or rather, lack thereof), but I didn't mind because I was savoring this burst of inner power. My hands were in his hair, and he made up for his loss in time by reaching his arms under me, and flipping us so that he rested above me, enveloping everything with his form. His arm still bent around the small of my back, his other forearm pressed into the bed next to my neck.

I was amazed at how clear the world was around me. Other times when we had gotten intimate like this it had been in front of the world, projected onto every television in the district. My mind had been fuzzy with other things; family, survival, war. I couldn't focus my attention on one thing. We didn't have the privilege of having a relationship with substance.

But this . . . this . . . feeling his pulse quicken at my touch, his sighs as they brush over my neck and chin, is _real_.

And just as quickly as it had started, it seemed to stop. Our kisses were slower, softer, and finally, gone all together.

Peeta's hair was brushing against my forehead when he finally spoke.

"Do you want to stop?"

A question. A question that needed an answer. I couldn't bring words to my lips. It was too hard to voice everything that I had felt for him in the past months, years even. I watched him suffer for me, and sacrifice and was there when he put everything on the line to protected me and keep me alive. He watched as I betrayed him, but he never lost hope in me. He's cried for me, and smiled for me, and has been there for me. He was my words and my hope, and my protector.

Tentatively I put my hands on his slim hips, grasping at the edges of his simple blue tshirt. He met my eyes, no _locked_ onto them. I was lost for a second, in the unearthly blue, trying to figure out what was different about them. They looked just as lost as mine did.

It took all I had to begin pulling the shirt off of him, thankful when he straighten and finished the job.

He straddled me, his naked chest fascinating as it loomed above me. Scars and burns ran like mottled rivers across his amdomen, and I resisted the urge to kiss every one. He threw his shirt off the bed and fell forward, his hands on either side of me, his face inches away. He gave me a single, long kiss before reaching under my shirt to touch my bare belly. I couldn't help myself – I erupted into a fit of laughter when his fingertips brushed just under my navel. It looked like it concerned him for a moment, his pride damaged, but eventually seemed to amuse him because lips replaced fingers and his mouth ran along my abdomen. Being tickled like this was unbearable, until, that is, he started to move up towards my ribs. Laughter was quickly replaced by labored breaths when his mouth landed on my breast. I could feel him smiling in the way his tongue darted out to taste me.

Every few moments he would raise his eyes to look at me, gauging my reaction I suppose, his blond lashes so long they flitted across my skin, his eyes kind. I couldn't help my fingers stroking his hair as he nudged my shirt up with his nose. I lifted my arms reflexively, and he pulled the garment off. I was aware of the static in my singed hair, and the myriad of scars on my body, but if he took note of any of this he didn't show it. I could feel the trail of saliva his lips left in their wake against my chest.

He kissed his way up my neck and finally to my lips, which I couldn't stop from trembling. What came after this? I knew, of course, but even knowledge couldn't stop the fear of the unknown from creeping up my spine. He looked scared too, I could see it in his gaze. I bit my bottom lip. What if I was bad? What if there was something wrong with me? What if he regrets this?

And then I thought of Peeta, and how open he was about everything. He was so upfront and unashamed of himself. I remember all the times we had changed in the same room, my eyes averted from his naked form. He made no attempt to hide himself, because he didn't care. That was who is was. Take it or leave it.

"Peeta . . ."

He was smiling his sweet smile,his eyes the only hint of sadness on his face, a stabbing reminder of the past playing over his irises like a movie.

"Are you sure you want this? With me?" I touched his face and he closed his eyes.

"That's my line." He murmured into my hand before kissing it softly.

"But-"

I couldn't finish. His tongue was in my mouth before I could even formulate an answer. Anger bubbled in my stomach for a second before being immediately diffused by his presence. He was right, there was no point talking about us. I didn't deserve him, and for some bizarre reason he thought he didn't deserve me. We could argue for hours about it, detailing Every mistake we had made to wrong one another.. But where would that lead us?

My fingers gravitated to the waistband of his nightpants. I began to edge them down his thigh, too embarrassed to look, but still oddly curious as I felt his heat against my own leg. He rolled both of us onto our sides, facing each other as he kicked his pants off. I couldn't stop myself from running my hands along his body. He was so muscular, so strong. I took him for granted all this time. He was so beautiful.

I choked back laughter when his hands ran along my hip line, edging underneath my waistband. He dipped his hand in, his impossibly long middle finger running the length of my sex, illiciting a sound I didn't know I could make, before pulling them down. Is this what it's supposed to feel like? This is more than I could ever imagine. His fingertip, so slowly sliding inside of me, was beyond description. The thought alone was enough to send tremors up my spine, the feeling was so tangible, so solid, that I didn't know how to react. My breath was caught in my throat. It was then that his thumb hit a nerve and my fingers, against my will, dug into his broad shoulder, trying desperately to anchor me to earth. I buried my face into his neck, arching my hips toward him, pleading for more. He touched that same spot again, and this time I couldn't hold back the short cry that had been hanging on my lips.

He pulled his hand from between my legs and brought it to rest on the bed next to my waist. I wanted to ask him how he knew more about my body then I did, and if sensing my thoughts, he spoke.

"Did you ever . . ." my brows furrowed as he trailed off. He cleared his throat quietly. "With Gale I mean, Did you two ever . . .?"

I wanted to laugh and to cry at the same time. The mention of Gale sent a sour taste racing to my tongue. I had forgiven him, but would never forget what he had done. I wanted to laugh because the mere thought of sex with Gale seemed so absurd. We were too much alike to ever consider anything like this. My mind had wandered at times, when Peeta was not himself, and I had almost settled with Gale. Looking back I realize just how lonely and hollow I was.

Remembering that Peeta had asked me something I replied with a shake of my head. "No, not that I can remember."

This seemed to soothe Peeta. He darted his tongue along his lips to wet them and smiled.

"What about you?"

"I've only even gone this far."

I brought my face up to kiss his, quietly, soothing, aware for the first time just how close our naked bodies really were.

My nervousness melted away. This next step was so insignificant compared to the trouble we had both been through. It was almost comical that something like this, compared to my tumultuous life, could cause my nerves to fray. This was Peeta. Sturdy, gentle, loving Peeta.

Our lips had been caught in oscillation when Peeta shifted. He was once more on top of me, and my heart was pounding. Not nervous, or embarrassed, but agitated at how slow he was going. My legs seemed to move on their own as the bent on either side of his body, my feet brushing against his lower back.

\ I could feel the head of his length against my wetness. I swallowed. He looked at me long and hard, refusing to let my eyes shy away. I didn't know what he was waiting for, my hand rising to grip his rippled shoulder seem to be enough urging, though, because as my fingers curl around the muscles he enters me.

It hurt, but was nothing compared to hell my body had been through. The pain was almost welcome as he pushed his way deeper into me. It put an edge on that I relished, and almost craved. I couldn't stop myself from wrapping around him, cradling his head in my neck, forcing him to go further. His mouth was a tender whisper against my collarbone.

It was hard to imagine that this boy, who had sacrificed for me, whose kindness stretched further than any other person, who, in the face of trouble, would give his life for me as well as live for me, was pressed against my body, inside of me, closer than any person had been before. I coerced myself into believing that I did deserve him, however perfect he was. He loved me, and I needed to let him in, if not for my sake then for his.

I began to focus on the seeming unimportant. Peeta's thigh touching mine. The weight of his body pressed in his hands on either side of my shoulders. The way way his eyebrows knit together when he entered me. His soft, labored breaths.

The breeze rolled in through the blanket of night, bringing with it the scents of dirt and life.

He pulled out tentatively and slid back in a few slow times before he began to study me, changing his pace to match my reactions. He learned that wanted it fast and hard, while he, I could tell, wanted to take his time and savor it. I didn't care though; whatever he wanted to do with me I didn't care. I was his. He went fast for me, and I, after ending up on top for a while, went painstakingly slow for him. I could barely register what I was doing, and yet my mind felt so clear.

With every thrust I could feel the fire grow within me. For a minute I forget about Peeta, too caught up in achieving my own ecstasy to notice he too was reaching his limit. I was biting my lip, grasping for the waves that promised to crash over me. I crush myself to him before drowning in my own lust, consumed in my own passion. I'm so concentrated on myself that it takes me a second to feel Peeta, who had been only a few seconds after, spill his heat into me.

It is silent again, save our breathing. Peeta is laying next to me, hands never far from my hair, his eyes tracking my own like a scope. Happiness was something that had eluded me for so long. I had refuse to let myself feel it for more than a few short burst in my life, instead living for others so that they could be happy. Peeta did not expect that from me. Since the moment I met him, through all of the pain and loss, deceit and heartbreak, every raw emotion that coursed through my veins, he was there for me. Through everything. My gentle painter, my baker, my one friend who always had my back, who was so very different from me in every way imaginable, who loved me unconditionally no matter what was forced between us.

He opens his mouth, uttering the first words since we broke apart. "You love me. Real, or not real?"

I don't even pretend to hesitate as I bring my fingers to rest against his cheek. I smile, not just for this small moment in time, but for the promise of a life of substance, where I'm not fighting for my blood, or grappling with impossible decisions. The promise that there is a chance of life, even after The Hunger Games, The promise that it is possible for two people, so desperately fighting to survive for each other, to achieve some kind of Eden, even when the odds are not in their favor.

I whisper back, "Real."

**I'm pretty self conscious when writing lemons, so please be gentle if you choose to review! Leave a review it you can! Thank you so much for reading!**


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